


And the Darkness Shall Turn To the Dawning

by Elvaron



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2012-08-25
Packaged: 2017-11-12 20:46:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvaron/pseuds/Elvaron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For atheilen's prompt: Alys marries Serg Vorbarra, becoming Crown Princess of Barrayar. Her only real protection from her husband is a young ImpSec officer with an eidetic memory chip... <i>ImpSec, she thought, with a tinge of emotion that was half sadness, half anger. Thoroughly devoted to their duty, and yet absolutely useless to her now. ImpSec couldn't protect her. No one could, not when the enemy was one she had willingly bound herself to.</i> Warnings in author's notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the Darkness Shall Turn To the Dawning

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [atheilen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/atheilen/pseuds/atheilen) in the [Bujold_Ficathon_2012](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Bujold_Ficathon_2012) collection. 



> This fic contains warnings for copious amounts of Serg being Serg. Domestic violence, violence, very dubious consent, abuse, Serg sleeping with everyone, Serg being a huge creep, the works. I've tried to keep most of it off camera, but it's still there. That mature rating? Is there for a reason.

The polished marble of the Imperial Residence's east wing guest bathroom was beige and gold, threaded through with silver. It was a warm colour, but did nothing to soothe the turmoil that rolled within her as she leaned against it, palms flat against the sinktop ( _white quartz and very cool in contrast to the heat in her skin_ ), her arms trembling very slightly from the strain of placing her whole weight on them ( _strain, not fear, of course not_ ).

Alys looked up. The mirrors ( _framed in mother of pearl, polished to a shine_ ) reflected back a Vor lady in her early twenties, wisps of hair escaping from their multitude of pins, dark circles under her eyes, heightened by smudges of eye liner and mascara. Her cheek was starting to turn red where Serg had struck her earlier – a vicious, open-handed slap with all the strength of his arm behind it, strong enough to make her trip over her heels and go sprawling to the ground ( _only because it'd caught her off guard. Unexpected and yet unsurprising_ ). 

Her first reaction had been raw anger. She had been so tempted to hit him back, or to pull the Vorfemme knife from its concealed sheath in her dress, to mark him as he had marked her. But a lady of the Vor did not strike at her husband, even when her husband turned, quite suddenly, from the dashing and charismatic gentleman who had sought her hand, into a monster whose eyes went dark with lust at the sight of pain, whose mouth curled with a demon's smile when he thought no one was looking. And so, to save them both from further embarrassment, she'd picked herself up and walked out ( _and if her pace had been a bit more hurried than was proper for the Crown Princess of Barrayar, well, at least it was too late at night for anyone to see_ ). 

She soaked a hand towel under the tap and pressed it to her cheek. The icy chill clashed with the burn and felt like a metaphor for just about everything else in her life right now. Her ears were still ringing with the screaming argument that she had just walked out on, Serg's handsome features twisted by rage as he demanded to know why she hadn't begotten an heir yet, after all this time. 

How had she not seen the monster that slept in him, when he'd bowed over her hand and asked her to wed him? How had she been dazzled only by the gentleness of his smile, the shine in his eyes, the fairness of his speech? How had she been so thoroughly spellbound by the way the lights of the Imperial Residence flattered his high, noble cheekbones, so _blinded_ that she hadn't even noticed the shadows on his mind and soul? 

Her heart twisted within her, wanting to seek release in tears and screams and useless outbursts of emotion. But the Crown Princess of Barrayar did not cry. On her shoulders rested the dignity of the Vor, of generations of empresses and princesses before her who had done their duty. Duty was what bound her now, the oaths she had spoken at the betrothal and wedding ceremonies wrapping like chains around her. They had seemed lighter than a feather when she had spoken them, borne aloft on the wings of foolishness. Those oaths were the only things that stopped her from running out of the lavish front doors of the Imperial Residence right now, heading back to the life she had known before, into the arms of the man she had nearly married another lifetime ago.

 _Padma,_ she thought, in one unguarded moment of foolishness, before she rallied herself and pushed that thought away. 

Her cheek was bleeding, she realised, when she pulled the towel away. It was a scratch from one of Serg's rings, minor in its own right, but difficult to conceal. And since this guest bathroom that she had sought refuge in when she had walked out on her argument with Serg was far away from the quarters she shared with her husband, she had nothing in the way of make-up to conceal it. 

She cast an eye around for a solution, a gesture in futility, before resigning herself to the knowledge that there was nothing for it but to try and make her way back to her rooms and hope that she didn't meet anyone who looked too closely. It was long past midnight, and the chances of encountering anyone was minimal if only she--

\--the door to the bathroom opened with a click. She spun, heart pounding in her chest. Had she, in her distraction, forgotten to lock the door? Or was it Serg, coming after her with a key and a viper's smile? This refuge was equally effective as a trap, with no way out and nowhere to hide. Her knife was in her hand before she realised what she was doing, even as she backed up as far as she could against the sink as the door yawned open.

But the young man who paused in the doorway, surprised written all over his face, wasn't Serg. 

"Your Highness," he stammered, and Alys took in the red Lieutenant's rectangles and the silver Horus eyes on the collar of his dress greens, and forced herself to take a deep breath. His blond hair might have passed for Serg's in the right light, and perhaps his eyes too, but that was where the resemblance ended – Serg would never have been caught dead with that look of wide eyed surprise on his face, and the snub features of this Lieutenant were as far from the chiselled perfection of Serg's as they could possibly get. 

Not Serg. _Not_ Serg. The relief that accompanied that thought nearly made Alys giddy. Dragging a mask of calm over her expression, she stashed the knife away, willing her hands not to shake.

"My apologies, the door wasn't locked and I thought it was unoccupied--" the Lieutenant babbled, frozen in place. Alys was certain that his eyes were as wide as hers had been, a moment ago.

"That's alright. I was just leaving." She tipped her chin up, drawing on her shaky dignity. The Lieutenant's eyes widened further, before narrowing in a frown.

"You're injured, milady," he said, the earlier stammer giving way to clipped, efficient tones. "Did someone assault you?" His eyes had left her face, and she saw him give the bathroom a cursory glance before turning to scan the corridor outside. His hand rested lightly on the stunner at his hip. 

ImpSec, she thought, with a tinge of emotion that was half sadness, half anger. Thoroughly devoted to their duty, and yet absolutely useless to her now. ImpSec couldn't protect her. No one could, not when the enemy was one she had willingly bound herself to. "No," she said, straightening her hair, pinning back the fly-aways. "It was an accident."

The Lieutenant glanced back at her, a thoughtful look on his face, and she knew he'd detected the lie. For a moment, their eyes locked, and she thought he was going to challenge her, before he drew himself to attention instead and nodded gravely. 

He would report this incident, she knew, unless she said something. And there would be questions, and it would get back to Serg, and Serg would laugh that soft mocking laugh, the one that sent chills down her spine where no amount of his shouting would. And what good would that do? "What's your name?" she asked. "And who do you report to?"

He started, not expecting the question. "My apologies, milady. Lieutenant Simon Illyan, of the Emperor's personal security. I report directly to Captain Negri."

A direct report to the dread Chief of ImpSec? Attached to the Emperor's security detail? He probably lived in the Residence, which would explain why he was wandering around the residential wing so late at night. She inclined her head at him, as grave as she could force herself to be, in the circumstances. Her heart was only just beginning to wind down. "Thank you for your concern, Lieutenant Illyan. And I would appreciate it if you didn't report this incident to your superiors."

"Milady? I--"

"This is not a security concern," she cut him off, in a tone of authority that was known to make much more senior officers quake. "There is hardly any need to make mention of it to Ezar or Negri."

"It's not that, milady," he said. A look of faint embarrassment crossed his features, making him look even younger than he probably was. His gaze moved beyond her to some indeterminate point on the wall beyond. "I have an eidetic memory chip that records everything I see and hear," he said. "Should the Emperor request a recall of tonight's incidents – I cannot lie to him." His voice dropped along with his gaze, and Alys detected a note of genuine regret in it. "Not even for you, your Highness."

An eidetic memory chip? They had those? Was every ImpSec officer outfitted with one? She shuddered despite herself, feeling like a million pairs of eyes were on her all of a sudden, watching and recording her every move. What had she gotten into, when she stepped into this house of horrors?

Illyan winced. "I'm sorry," he said, then with uncanny insight, as though he'd read her mind, he smiled. "Don't worry, I'm the only one with it. It was a little experiment of the Emperor's, but the project wasn't very successful, so he decided against pursuing it further." There was just enough inflection on the way he said 'little' that suggested it had been anything but, for those concerned.

A bit of the nervous tension in her unwound at his words – no, it wasn't his words, it was his tone, the calm, reassuring way he spoke. Serg was a master orator in his own right, whose smooth baritone made young Vor girls swoon, whose precision and eloquence of speech bordered on poetry. Illyan couldn't hold a candle to Serg, and yet there was something about his reassurances that warmed her through.

"That's no need to apologise, Lieutenant Illyan," she said. It wasn't his fault, really, that he had such a thing installed in his head. To be able to record and remember everything he saw or heard... it must have been a boon for his job, but to Alys it sounded like a horror of its own. She could scarcely begin to imagine what it was like, living with a recording device you could never switch off. To be unable to retreat into blissful forgetfulness. "But if there was nothing unusual that happened tonight, then there is no reason for Ezar to request a replay of it, is there? Particularly if you don't make special mention of it." She smiled, and hated the way it felt so fragile. She wasn't _broken_ , there was no reason for her to feel that way...

"That's true," Illyan replied thoughtfully. Then his eyes lighted on the cut on her cheek again, and some shadow of unhappiness passed his eyes. 

"And as for everyone else..." she said.

"Captain Negri may also order a recount," Illyan replied, "But aside from him and the Emperor – you may rest assured, I will say nothing."

"Thank you," she replied. "And now I must be returning to my rooms."

Illyan offered his hand with a bow. The part of Alys that spent hours coaching servitors on etiquette approved thoroughly. "May I escort you, your Highness? I know of some, ah-- less well known access passages, if you do not feel inclined towards chance encounters tonight."

The last thing she needed was to be seen by anyone else. And it would not be untoward to be escorted by an ImpSec officer, would it? Goodness knew that she always had crowd of them or Vorbarra armsmen around her whenever she left the Residence. Her reasoning, she told herself firmly, had nothing to do with not wanting to be alone right now. "Thank you, Lieutenant Illyan. I would greatly appreciate that," she replied, placing her hand in his. As he straightened, there was fleeting moment in which she thought she saw Serg instead, something in the way he moved that echoed Serg's grace-- 

\--but then he looked up, and his face, with its snub features, plain to the point of being forgettable, was as different from Serg's as day and night. Alys looked away quickly, and took his arm. They spent the walk back to her rooms in silence.

*

"Where is my heir, woman?" 

This close, Alys could smell the alcohol on Serg's breath. He leaned in, invading her personal space without regard, one hand casually pinning her wrists against the wall above her head, the other toying with the neckline of her dress. The wandering touch of his fingers – even after months of being married to him – made her skin crawl, but it was the _hunger_ in his eyes that made her blood run cold. 

Just a scant hour earlier, she had leaned against him in the car as he chatted on, in high spirits after attending the first ball of Winterfair. He had put an arm around her and smiled, all dizzying warmth and charm, and she had almost believed, in that moment, that she was only imagining the growing darkness around him. 

She had no such illusions now. She would have struggled, except the grip around her wrists was strong as iron, and she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing how much he terrified her. 

"Perhaps you should ask yourself that question," Alys had replied as calmly as she could. "It takes two to conceive a child."

It was the wrong thing to say. Anger washed abruptly across his features, sudden as a summer storm, and the next moment, she felt him slap her hard enough to snap her head to one side. It hardly hurt, but the humiliation made her glare, made that old, old fury bubble up in her again, the only thing that drowned out the fear. "Hitting me won't change anything, Serg," she said pointedly. Recklessly.

She'd expected him to get angrier. She'd expected another blow, expected him to raise his voice before storming off to drink himself to oblivion, the way they always did lately when they fought. Instead, the anger cleared from his brow, giving way to a thoughtful, curious expression. "You don't react," he said, and the calmness of his voice was worse than any shouting. "The other Vor girls would all be wailing by now." He seized her chin, jerking her face up. She matched his gaze, steel for steel.

Serg laughed. "Ges is right. This _is_ why I like you." His grip around her wrists tightened, hard enough to hurt. "What would it take to scare you, I wonder?" He pressed his face against her neck, teeth scraping over her skin, inhaling deeply. "And how much more would it take to..." His fingers wandered down, undoing the buttons of her dress from the neckline down, pausing as they brushed up against the hilt of her knife. "What's this?"

Terror spiked. Unthinking, she kneed him in the stomach, as hard as she could. His grip slipped, and she shoved him away, pushing past him to run. An instinctive reaction, a _stupid_ reaction, but she didn't know what else she could do. She registered the sounds of him scrambling behind, and ran faster, lifting the hem of her skirts. Through the doorway of their bedroom, out into the living area beyond, then her fingers were fumbling at the lock on the main door to their suite. Serg stepped up behind and she tore off her shoes, throwing them in the direction of his head. She heard a thunk and a noise of surprise, then the door opened under her hand and she dashed out into the corridor beyond.

"You can run, woman," Serg yelled after her as her bare feet hit the cold marble, " _But you can't hide!_ "

She ran faster, ignoring the stares of the armsmen outside the door. They wouldn't say anything – they never said anything, because they wouldn't protect her, _couldn't_ protect her. She'd chosen this hell for herself and she was the only one she could blame for being so _stupid_. And she shouldn't be running, she shouldn't be giving Serg what he wanted, because he would just take more, and more, until there was nothing left--

"Your Highness!"

She barely registered the voice until she ran headlong into the speaker. He stumbled back, carried by the force of the impact, arms wrapping around her. She checked her mad flight, glancing up in surprise. 

For a moment, she couldn't recognise him, could only register that he seemed familiar. Then her eyes took in the insignia on his uniform, and a name surfaced from the memories of another dark night that she had tried her best to forget. "Lieutenant Illyan," she said, and it was a miracle that her voice didn't shake. It felt like everything else was shaking. She glanced over her shoulder, but the corridor behind was empty. 

"You're safe, there's no one pursuing," Illyan said, and when she looked back at him, it seemed for a moment that she saw some glimmer of anger on his face. Then his expression smoothed out into something unreadable, and he stepped back, leaving only the lightest of lingering touches on her shoulders to ensure that she had found her balance. 

He hadn't asked her what was wrong. Which meant that …

"You knew," she said. "Were you spying on us?" Her tone came out sharper than she intended.

His hands dropped back to his sides and he looked away. "I heard you running. I heard his Highness yelling. I was obliged to investigate."

 _And you expect me to believe that you were so conveniently nearby when it all happened?_ Alys bit her lip in an effort to hold back the words. More fool she, driving away someone who meant her no harm. But she didn't want anyone to know, didn't want anyone to see her like this. What if word got out to Serg? What if word got out to her _family?_ "It's nothing. We had a quarrel." Her hands went to her dress, half-buttoned, and hurriedly did it up. 

"Am I still supposed to not report this?" Illyan asked, very softly. 

"Serg and I have our differences. Ezar surely knows that. We just need time to sort it out." She wasn't going to convince anyone if she continued being this defensive. She gentled her tone, placed a hand on Illyan's forearm. "Please understand. If we don't try to work this out – the two of us, together – we'll never be able to sort out our problems..."

Illyan was silent for a long moment before he finally met her eyes, breathing the ghost of a sigh. "I understand. I apologise for the intrusion, your Highness." He didn't sound happy about it. 

"There is no call for apology, Lieutenant Illyan. It seems I am once again indebted to you for your assistance."

He bowed. "Never, milady." 

"I should..." _be going back_. But some cowardly part of her didn't want to face Serg so soon. He would probably be drinking – at least, she hoped that he would be, and if she just waited long enough, he would be passed out in a stupor by the time she got back. Seeing how much he had drunk at the party earlier, it wouldn't take too much to reach that stage.

Illyan evidently registered the reluctance. "It wouldn't do for the Princess to run around the Imperial Residence without shoes... Captain Negri would have my head if you caught a chill," he said. "There's a sitting room just down the corridor, milady. Perhaps we can get you comfortable there while I obtain appropriate footwear."

 _You don't catch chills from walking around barefoot, silly,_ she wanted to say, and had to swallow a nervous laugh. She took his offered arm instead, feeling for a dizzying, confusing moment like this was all a crazy dream, and she was only a pretend-Princess, playing make-believe. But Illyan's arm was warm and solid, and certainly not just a part of her imagination, and if she held on a bit tighter than propriety demanded, he didn't comment on it. 

*

"I was thinking, Alys, that we should go on a holiday."

She paused in the midst of adjusting the sleeve of her nightrobe, and turned to look at her husband where he reclined in bed, a book cradled in one hand. 

"A holiday?" she repeated.

Serg raised an eyebrow. "I thought it would be a good break. We've both been terribly stressed lately. Maybe all we need is some time away – just the two of us, alone together."

 _Two of us, alone together._ The dread that those words invoked made her freeze, any possible reply withering on her lips. 

Serg frowned and sat up. "You don't look happy about it. And here I thought..."

He sounded so genuinely hurt for a moment that she almost - _almost_ \- believed him. She shook her head. "It's not a good time. We're in the middle of Winterfair, and then there's the Emperor's birthday right after that, and the spring calendar..."

Serg pushed aside the covers and stood, all elegant lines and coiled muscle. She had thought, once, that he reminded her of a lion, majestic, sleek and deadly. Now, he just reminded her of a snake. She stiffened as he drew near and caught her hands. "It doesn't have to be long. There's plenty of time between Winterfair and father's birthday to fit in a quick getaway." He raised her hand to his mouth and kissed it, peering at her over the top of it. "Or is it," he said, his voice abruptly dropping a few notches, "That you don't want to spend time with your own husband?"

She stepped back, and her hand slipped from his grasp. "You have your own duties too, my lord. Thank you for the thought, but--"

Serg caught her arm and she gasped involuntarily in pain as his fingers curled around a bruise, concealed under the folds of her sleeve. Something glinted in his eyes. "Are you refusing me, Alys? Is that something a good Vor lady should do?" His grip tightened, and she gritted her teeth. She'd been doing this wrong, letting Serg goad her into reacting, instead of trying to take control of the situation. Taking a mental breath, she gathered her wits about her and tried a different tract.

"No, Serg," she said. Gently. Demurely, just like a good Vor wife. "It's a lovely idea. But this is my first real winter in Vorbarr Sultana, and I really don't want to miss all festivities..." She smiled. "Let's go in spring instead, or maybe early summer. We can head up north--" 

Serg's fingers tightened even more, and he pulled her against him, his other hand catching her in the small of her back to press her against him. "Does it hurt?" he whispered, right in her ear, and she realised that he hadn't been listening to a single word she said. "You're so strong, Alys. Your will is like iron, unbending, resilient in the face of adversity."

"Let _go_ of me, Serg," Alys ground out, dropping all pretense. Tactics were no good, _words_ were no good, when all Serg wanted was her reactions, her fear and anger, wanted to get under her skin and make her bend and break...

He lowered his head to her shoulder, nosing aside her robe and planting a soft kiss against her skin. "But you're not iron, you know?" he said. "You're a flower, a white rose, trying to bloom in the snow." He chuckled softly, his breath a puff. 

"I have... no idea what you're talking about," she said, her heart hammering so fast in her chest that she was sure he could feel it. She needed to get out of here, but there was nowhere to go. Words were the only line of defense she had, and he _wasn't listening..._

"An exquisite flower," Serg said, his tone thoughtful. "Shall we see what lies at your heart, when I peel your petals away?"

She shoved at him; he let go abruptly, and struck back, his forearm catching her in the chest and sending her slamming backwards into the wall. She doubled over, gasping, her breath knocked out of her from the blow. Dimly, she registered Serg moving to the bedside table and pulling the drawer open, even as she tried frantically to draw air into her lungs.

It was the click that made her look up, and she froze at the sight of the stunner being aimed at her. "What do you think you're doing?" she demanded, but her voice betrayed her, trembling where she sought desperately for authority and control.

Serg smiled, all glittering cruelty and malice, eyes narrowed and mouth twisted. "My apologies, my beautiful flower," he said, "But if I don't do this, you will simply run from me again." And he squeezed the trigger.

The bolt caught her in the legs. She crumpled with a cry, a crawling sensation of pins-and-needles engulfing her body before it went numb. A low powered bolt, she thought, in the part of her mind that wasn't screaming in panic. Serg wanted her awake, for whatever he had in mind. 

She tried to speak, to reason with him, but her tongue was deadweight in her mouth, and all that emerged was a garbled moan. Serg laughed, kneeling beside her where she had fallen. 

"Not so strong now, are we?" he asked, amused. "So, what should we do now?"

She should have told Ezar. She should have told _someone_. She'd thought – foolishly – that Serg would never stoop this low. She'd trusted in her own strength to stop him, before he could do something truly disastrous. She'd even trusted that, at heart, he _wasn't a monster of this calibre..._

He tugged her nightrobe open, traced a line from her collarbone to her heart with the stunner. The barrel was hot enough to burn, right through the numbness of the stun. She would have jerked away if she could.

"Am I not the master of your heart, my love?" Serg asked. "Did you not pledge yourself to me, and me only?"

 _I didn't,_ she raged in her mind. _Not to you, anyway, not to this monster that lurks beneath the shining exterior of a golden prince..._

"And still you fight," Serg said, smiling down at her, running his thumb over her lips. "Still you refuse to be cowed. That spirit that burns so bright is what I love so much about you, Alys. And yet... something about it peeves me, something about it--"

The door banged open. Serg surged to his feet, and from her position on the floor, Alys saw a squad of armed ImpSec men pour into the room.

"Your Highness!" their commander called out, and she recognised his voice even through the fuzziness that threatened to engulf her mind. _Illyan._

"And what," Serg said coldly, "Is the meaning of this intrusion?"

"We registered the discharge of an energy weapon in your quarters, my lord," Illyan said. "Was there an intruder-- milady!"

 _Don't look, Illyan,_ Alys thought miserably. 

"Your quick response is commendable, Lieutenant," Serg said smoothly. "But no, there was no intruder. Princess Alys was merely... playing... with a stunner. It accidentally went off." The way he said it made it sound absolutely filthy.

"Get a floatpad immediately," Illyan told someone, probably one of his subordinates. And to Serg, "I'll get her to medical, sir."

"That's hardly necessary," Serg said, and there was a thread of annoyance in his level tones. "As there is no emergency--"

Illyan shoved past Serg to kneel beside Alys, his eyes wide. "She's _injured_ , my lord." He moved hastily to pull her robe tighter around her shoulders, tightening the sash and helping her to sit up. 

The clatter of boots in the hallway outside probably signalled the arrival of the floatpad. Sensation was a distant thing to Alys, and it caught her by surprise when Illyan stood, lifting her bodily in his arms. Vertigo made her head spin. 

"I'll get her to medical," Illyan said to Serg. "Stun shots occasionally induce side effects – we wouldn't want to take the risk of this turning into something more serious. Sir." 

Alys could see Serg's face out of the corner of her eye, and she noticed when the casual annoyance sharpened into something more deadly. _No!_ Alys thought, _Don't take notice of him, he's just a junior officer doing his job!_

Serg's lip curled. Illyan stood his ground and stared right back. In the silence, the tension grew until one could choke on it. 

"Sir," one of Illyan's men said uncertainly. "The floatpad is here...?"

Serg let the moment stretch long enough to make a point, before inclining his head in mock graciousness. "Yes, of course. I leave her in your capable hands."

Illyan sketched a bow and strode towards the foyer and the floatpad. He'd just reached the doorway when Serg's voice, low and amused, floated out to them. "Lieutenant Illyan, was it? Of the Emperor's security detail?"

Illyan paused. "Yes, sir."

"I'll remember your diligence, Lieutenant," Serg said, his tone dark.

 

She drifted in and out of consciousness as the stun ran its course. The bed in the medical wing was nowhere as luxurious as the monstrosity that she shared with Serg, but it was soft and clean and felt _safe_. She slept better than she had in a long time, and when she floated awake some time in the middle of the night, she saw Illyan sitting in the chair next to her, pouring over some reports. 

When she awoke again, it was to mild nausea and a headache. She sat up, squinting against lights that seemed too bright, massaging her temples. Involuntarily, she glanced over at the chair that Illyan had sat in, and the twinge of disappointment that she felt when she saw it was empty came as a surprise to her. 

_Just as well,_ she thought. It was bad enough that he'd intervened directly and that Serg had taken notice of him. Things were going to be even more difficult, from here on out.

The lights dimmed abruptly as a shadow appeared in the doorway. Alys glanced up sharply, her heart in her mouth, before the figure stepped forward and resolved into Illyan. He held a glass of water in his hand. "Did I startle you?" he asked, moving to her bedside. "It seemed like the lights were bothering you so..."

She shook her head, not quite trusting her voice yet. 

"Headache? The doctors did say that you might have a minor post-stun hangover," Illyan said. "Here." He pressed a few capsules into her hand. "These will help."

The softness to his voice threatened to undo her in a way that all of Serg's tactics never would. It was probably a sign that she was still far too distraught. She pushed the emotion aside, swallowing the pills and chasing them with the water that Illyan had brought. The activity helped to give her some kind of emotional distance from the events of the night – was it last night? Was it even the morning yet?

"What time is it?" she asked. Her voice was steadier than she thought it would be, if a little rough.

"Just past eight in the morning," Illyan replied, taking the chair beside her bed again. "Would you like a light breakfast, your Highness?"

That salutation brought to mind, all too clearly, the sound of his voice as he burst through the doors, and brought with it a roll of emotion that she didn't want to face. "Don't-- call me that," she said, before she could stop herself. Illyan looked bewildered. 

"My apologies... milady?" 

The uncertainty in his eyes made her feel compelled to explain. "'Your Highness' – is my husband." Would forever be. If she could relive her life again, she would never have-- "I'm sorry," she said, because he looked faintly hurt. "I'm not myself--"

"Don't apologise, milady," Illyan said hurriedly. He ventured a tentative smile; it made him look like a puppy. She looked away. 

"Who are you, Lieutenant Illyan?" she asked, her hands curling around the bedsheets.

She could sense his frown. "I'm not sure I understand--"

"How did you get to my rooms so quickly? Why are you always around the Residence late at night? Are you--" her fingers twisted fabric between them, "-- _spying on me?_ "

She was striking at the person who probably deserved it the least, but she couldn't help herself. Paranoia and conspiracy theories danced through her mind, each enunciated in Serg's precise, mocking diction. What if Illyan was Serg's man? What if this was yet another of Serg's twisted mindgames? The proles had a name for it – good cop, bad cop. What if this was just a setup to get her to trust him, and then have him turn on her?

She clutched at her head, the world spinning about on its axis. _Stop it,_ she told herself, as sharp as she could, but she couldn't stop the voices from whispering that she couldn't trust anyone, that she was alone, that she was Serg's prey, that she couldn't do anything about it. _You're turning into Serg!_ the little voice of sanity within her cried, but it was fast becoming drowned out by the chorus of other voices.

"—Alys. Princess Alys." 

She glanced up, wide-eyed, as Illyan's voice cut through the turmoil. He was on bended knee by her bed, and had captured - _when?_ \- one of her hands between his own. "I swear to you," he said, and some raw emotion choked his voice, "I am not Serg's man."

As one, the voices in her head fell silent. She felt his words thread through the confusion, settling with certainty in her heart, and she knew that she trusted him, even if she had no reason to. "Simon..." she whispered. 

"My official designation is that of junior aide-de-camp to His Majesty the Emperor's Security Commander," Illyan continued. "The unofficial one..." he looked sheepish, "Is that of Emperor Ezar's vid-recorder on legs. My job is to observe, and remember. The Emperor can ask for transcripts of meetings at any time, but if he wants to know the precise expression of a particular Minister during a particular session – it is my responsibility to be able to tell him that." He bowed his head briefly. "Forgive me, Princess. But I saw so much distress in you, and … I couldn't … just stand by."

"Stand up, Simon," she said. "Don't kneel to me. You of all people have no reason to."

"Milady," he said, and moved to stand. She held on to his hand before he could pull away. The look he gave her was questioning, before he moved cautiously to sit on the edge of the bed. "I increased the guard around your wing," he said, still sounding apologetic. "And my own quarters are very nearby. Besides, the discharge of an energy weapon anywhere in the Residence is a priority one emergency..."

Her fingers tightened around his. His hands were rough with callouses, but so warm. "You have a lot of influence for a Lieutenant..."

Surprised lighted across his features. "Now that you mention it..."

"And a lot of promise," Alys said. "Your star is rising. You shouldn't get yourself involved in this. It's … not wise to cross the Prince."

His jaw set with a stubborn look that reminded her of Padma. "I'm Imperial Security, milady. This is my duty."

Her head was spinning again. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his shoulder. "It's all too easy for a Lieutenant – even if he's Negri's best – to disappear in a convenient accident. You need to be more careful."

"I'm not Negri's best," he protested. "And it'll be difficult to explain to the Emperor why his vid-recorder is missing..."

"Don't call yourself that," she snapped, before she could help it.

He tensed. "What?"

"A vid-recorder. Don't call yourself that. You are far more than that."

She felt the muscles of his shoulder relax, and imagined the way his expression must have softened. "I don't mind," he said. "There are worse things to be called." His thumb traced an arc over the top of her hand. "But … you can't ask me to step aside and let him do these things to you, milady."

"If something …" the words caught in her throat. "If something happens to you, who would be left to …"

"You need to tell the Emperor," Illyan said, very gently. "If he can't protect you, who can?"

Who could, indeed? If she had thought that Ezar would be any protection at all, she would have told him a long time ago. But Ezar knew what Serg was like. Had to know. _Must have known_ when he stood on the point of the wedding star, and yet he had said nothing. "What can he do?" she asked, bitter.

Illyan squeezed her hand. "What he can."

She felt numb right through, as though she'd been shot again. "You must have already reported tonight's incident to him."

She felt, rather than saw, his nod. "I could scarcely – this was quite definitely a security incident. But milady..." he pulled back a bit, which made her lift her head off his shoulder. Their gazes met, and his was solemn. "Please, you need to speak with someone. Negri, or Ezar – you can't do this on your own..."

 _I have you,_ she thought, but it was a selfish, stupid thought, unworthy of a Princess. To let him get involved was to get him killed, and the last thing she wanted was his blood on her hands. She sighed. "I will."

*

It was a snowy night near the end of winter when she found herself wandering the corridors of the Residence again. Nothing more sinister than insomnia drove her, this time, for which she was grateful. Ezar must have done something to bring his son in line, for he had been civilised, if distant, since that day. They slept in different rooms now, though Serg visited her to – do his duty, as he put it – all cold eyes and cold hands. There was nothing romantic about it; a quick tryst and then he was gone, often leaving the Residence to spend time with increasingly unsavoury company. But it was better than the alternative, and Alys was grateful for small mercies.

But as the sharp terror had faded away, it felt like it had taken the rest of her emotion with it, leaving nothing but a dull lassitude that clouded her mind and heart. Months had passed and still her stomach stayed as flat as a board, and her duty continued to stretch out long and unending before her. The thought of it was enough to make despair cut through the chill in her heart.

 _You must beget an heir, the future of the Imperium depends on it,_ Ezar had said, stern and implacable. _And while I can extend some limited protection to you, it will not last forever. Once you have a son, however... other arrangements can be made._

His words had given her some hope for a while, but even that hope had withered, swallowed up in the stifling cold and dark.

The corridors were cold, and she could see from the windows that the snow was falling thick and heavy outside. Serg was out there somewhere, and the snow was heavy enough that he probably wouldn't come back to the Residence tonight. A mad, silly plan started blossoming in her head, and she found herself walking, fingers trailing across the wall as though she was a girl lost in the Minotaur's labyrinth of legend.

Perhaps she was instead that girl – she had certainly been lost since she first stepped into this world. The Minotaur might well have devoured her, leaving behind only a shell, a burnt out husk that walked and breathed but didn't _live_. 

Her feet had brought her to the guest quarters in the Residence. To her left, the corridors led off to the large, luxury suites, and to the right, smaller rooms for the staff of visiting dignitaries. The entire wing was rarely used now, the security risk of having guests in-house deemed to be too high, and most guests stayed at nearby hotels instead. The wing lay silent and quiet, except for a single room where light still spilled out from under the door.

Alys paused before it, suddenly unsure of herself. Certainly, Illyan had told her the location of his temporary quarters and invited her to come over whenever she so desired, but it didn't mean that it was a good idea. The scandal, the politics... and more than that – what would she get from facing him, except more of a useless delusion, an escape from reality that would make the return that much harder?

Why was she here, anyway, she wondered. She hadn't seen Illyan since that nightmarish incident, except as a distant figure trailing behind Ezar at official functions. He was hard to spot, blending too easily in the background, dwarfed and outshone by the Vor elite and his higher ranking colleagues. But she always looked for him despite her better instincts, and it always felt like a private triumph whenever she spotted him at last, seated quietly with his hands folded in his lap while everyone else around him took notes furiously. 

There was no comfort he could offer her, nothing except a longing for a life she couldn't have. Seeing him _hurt_ , and the last thing she needed was more pain, even if she felt drawn to his light like a moth to flame.

When had she become this weak? There was a time when she had needed nothing and no one, had been able to hold her head high on her own strength, had no reason to hide behind a mask that felt like it was held together by spider silk. Age and experience were supposed to make one stronger, weren't they? 

Her hand rose of its own accord, hovering over the doorbell. She realised what she was doing, and dropped it back to her side, shaking her head sternly at herself. She forced herself to turn away, ruthlessly overriding the self-pity and self-indulgence that she was wallowing in. 

The sound of footsteps in the corridor made her pause. As she considered – too slowly – whether to hide, the footsteps resolved into Illyan, carrying a coffee mug and yawning hugely behind one hand. He paused as he caught sight of her, and his eyes widened. "Milady? Is something the matter?" He hurried over to her side, spilling a few drops from his cup.

The sight of him and all that concern in his voice and on his face was an unexpected stab to her heart. Numbness gave way to pain, and then to the yawning chasm of despair, months of pent up emotions suddenly bubbling up from bottomless depths. She stepped back as he neared, and he stopped abruptly. He was always so cautious around her. Always so polite. Always handling her with such gentleness, as though she would break if he breathed too hard – was that how he saw her? Was that how everyone else saw her? She bit her lip hard, torn between the desire to go closer and the desire to turn and run. 

The distress must have been clear on her face, because Illyan's expression was growing increasingly alarmed. "Princess Alys, please, this way." He swiped his keycard across the access panel and elbowed his door open, using his shoulder to prop it open. His free hand hovering near her arm, not quite daring to touch. "I'm sorry, it's a mess, but--"

Going into his room was a bad, bad idea. What if someone saw? The corridor appeared empty, but paranoia was a permanently ingrained habit in her now. She could scarcely afford the price if the vicious rumour mill whispered it right into Serg's ear... She backed up a step, shaking her head. "It's fine, Lieutenant. I was just taking a walk."

He ducked his head, embarrassed. "I presumed too much. My apologies, Princess."

His distress lent her a measure of purpose, and from that purpose she drew strength. She touched his elbow briefly. "You really need to stop apologising to me. No offence is taken," she said. Once, she would have softened the words with a smile, but smiling had been beyond her for a while. But there was nothing for it now. She'd accidentally embarrassed him, and as his liegelady, she was obliged to put it right. It wasn't his fault that she was handling all of this so badly, first turning up at his door then turning down his attempts at courtesy, leaving him hanging at loose ends in a situation where he was bound to misstep. Her soul might have felt lifeless, but she was still Vor enough to be conscious of her duties towards those whose hands were between Ezar's, and through the curse of her marriage, indirectly between hers as well. Squaring her shoulders, she gave him a gracious nod and stepped into his room.

It was tiny, by Imperial Residence standards, and probably the lap of luxury for a junior officer. The size of a well appointed hotel room, it sported a bed and a small sitting area, with a small, two-seater sofa and a coffee table wedged into one corner.

"Your talk of mess is overrated," she observed. There were papers littered on the coffee table, a large schematic of the Residence taking up most of it, and the bin was overflowing with discarded Reddi-Meal wrappers, but the rest of the room was spartan, devoid of any personal artefacts whatsoever. 

She settled onto the couch as Illyan hovered, ill at ease. "Can I get you a drink, milady? Tea? Coffee?" He glanced dubiously at the mug in his hand. It was a commemorative one, from the Emperor's last birthday, functional and impersonal.

Alys shook her head. "I don't require anything, Illyan." Nothing that he could give, anyway. She glanced at the papers on his desk again for the want of anything better to do, feeling out of place. As she had expected, it had been a bad idea to come here. She was obviously making him nervous, and she wasn't herself, her heart apparently trying to bleed its way out of her chest.

A familiar looking sketch caught her eye and she pulled it out before she considered that it might be classified. It was a seating plan for a dinner reception, the names scrawled in pencil in the margins, the paper littered with question marks. She cast an inquiring eye at Illyan. "You're in charge of this?"

Illyan practically shuffled his feet. "Captain Negri asked me to take a crack at it. We didn't want to trouble you, since you--"

Since she had told Negri the last time that she didn't care any more. The memory of it made her wince. She had enjoyed this, once – this and all the elaborate preparation that went into Imperial entertainment scene. It had been an escape from Serg and all her other worries, a chance for her to shine, a job that she had been invested in.

She wasn't sure when it had lost its charm, only that it had become a headache and then a burden. Another duty, just like all the other duties that she was doing so badly at. She felt the guilt like another stab.

"Here, let me help you," she said, reaching for a pencil on his desk. "For this weekend's trade meeting with the delegation from Beta Colony? You can't put Count Vorsmythe next to the Betan Ambassador, he'll have a coronary. Why don't we move him down two seats, and his wife should be another two seats down, and … let's see... we'll move Count Vorvolk to that seat, he's quite used to the Betans..." 

Illyan leaned forward, keen interest on his face. "Yes, I think that works. I don't know why I didn't think of that myself."

"Prime Minister Vortala has to take the foot of the table. It's an odd arrangement but we don't have enough Betans go around, so I think we can put his wife next to him, and we'll put the Betan ambassador next to her, which leaves..." her finger, trailing down the guest list, stopped abruptly at the next name.

_Vorpatril._

_Padma,_ she thought, and was dimly aware of the way the pencil slipped through her suddenly nerveless fingers. 

"Milady?" Illyan asked, but Alys found her mind miles away instead, trapped somewhere in the past, lingering on a young Vor lord, bumbling and clumsy beside Serg. He had made her laugh, she remembered, a memory long suppressed rising to the surface, bursting like a bubble. He had brought her flowers in _terrible_ taste, roses dyed blue and clashing with orange tulips, but he had been so genuine that she hadn't been able to say anything other than that they were lovely. She'd kept them in a vase, next to the lavish and exquisite bouquet of rare and incredibly expensive offworld plants that Serg had sent to her.

Padma had made her laugh, and in return she had broken his heart. He had tripped over the words of his proposal, fumbled the ring, and she had privately thought there was no sight more adorable. If only she had said yes. If only... But she had shaken her head, and watched his dreams crumble to dust.

She buried her face in her hands, but no moisture leaked from behind her eyelids. She almost wanted the tears to come now, as though they could wash some of the pain out of her chest, but her eyes remained dry. She had locked away the grief long ago, and it seemed like the key was lost forever.

"It's just like these seating plans, isn't it?" she said, laughing a laugh she didn't feel. "You make do with whatever information you have, you try and arrange it the best you can, but in the end it all ends in tears..."

"Milady..." Illyan said. The cushions of the couch shifted beneath her, and before she realised what was happening, his arm was around her shoulders, pulling her close against his side. 

_It isn't proper,_ her sense of propriety cried out. But her being in Illyan's room wasn't proper either, her breaking Padma's heart wasn't proper, and what Serg was doing to her certainly wasn't... drawn close, she found that she had leaned her head against his shoulder, and was a little surprised by how warm he was. 

"If Serg sees this..." she murmured.

"If the Prince so much as steps through the gates of the Residence, my outer perimeter will alert me immediately." Illyan's arm tightened fractionally around her shoulders. "It's you I'm more worried about, milady."

"You worry too much," she said.

"It comes with the job, I'm afraid," he replied. She didn't reply, merely shifted to a position where she could sit comfortably for as long as she liked. Illyan glanced down at her. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Nothing was ever simple any more. Half of her wanted to spill it all out to someone who wouldn't betray her confidence. Half of her didn't want to breathe a word of it – what good would it be, except to make her relive all of that again, and possibly humiliate her in front of Illyan? Her hand sought Illyan's free one and she laced their fingers together instead, shaking her head. 

Illyan was silent for a moment, before he cleared his throat diffidently. "Well, perhaps I could do the talking instead," he suggested. 

Anything to keep the silence and the thoughts at bay. "Why don't you tell me about yourself?" she invited. "I hardly know anything about you."

Illyan made a small 'hm' noise at the back of his throat. "My family came from the Vortala district. We've been farmers for generations, but the Cetagandan invasion devastated most of our land. My grandparents and my parents tried to put it all together again but it was always a struggle, especially during Yuri's reign. Taxes were crazy. Trying to put food on the table was a challenge, nevermind putting a child through school... but my parents insisted."

It was as different a world from Alys' as she could ever have imagined. "So you ended up in the military."

"Putting me through college was an impossible dream, but one my father wanted. Joining the military and gunning for a military scholarship seemed to be logical compromise – plus, I didn't want to spend my life doing what my father did, and if I joined the military there was at least one less mouth for my family to support."

"What of the farm?" Alys wondered out loud.

"My father died just after I graduated from basic training and went into officer's training. We sold the land - what was left of it, and I managed to convince my mother to move to the city." 

"Are you close to her?" Alys asked. She felt as estranged from her own parents as one could ever be, lost in this labyrinth. When she wrote, her letters assured them that she was happy - the same lie she fed to the outside world every time she and Serg appeared in public. The perfect royal couple, smiling and waving to the crowds, loving husband and devoted wife. It was for the Imperium's sake, she told herself. All for the Imperium's sake.

"She passed a year or so ago," Illyan said, and his uncharacteristic lack of precision in that sentence made Alys suspect that it was a wound that hadn't quite healed yet.

"My condolences," she offered, and winced internally at how … detached it sounded. She hadn't always been this cold. 

"Thank you,” he returned quietly. 

Serg's own mother had died in childbirth. Alys wondered if things would have been different if she hadn't - if _Serg_ would have been different. But she didn't want to think about Serg, right now. It felt as though she was wrapped up in a peaceful bubble, suspended outside the world that she had come to know. Selfishly, she wanted to cling onto it, even though part of her knew that she was keeping Illyan from his work and from his rest. _Just a little longer,_ she told herself. _Just a tiny bit longer..._

"And how is it, serving the Emperor?" she prompted.

Illyan shifted minutely, probably seeking a more comfortable position, as he thought about it. "At the risk of sounding ungrateful, I actually wanted ship duty. But the assigning officer put me in ImpSec and …" she sensed rather than saw his shrug. "It's … hard to describe. It's an honour, of course. It's exhilarating. It's stressful. The responsibilities are enormous, the pay-offs... I don't think they're quite commensurate, some days. It's definitely not what I thought I'd be getting when I signed on, but some days, I think it's worth it." Did his arm tighten fractionally around her?

"Did they put you in ImpSec because of the chip?" she asked. It was a delicate subject, one that she wasn't sure if she should ask about, but it was something that defined him so completely. 

"No," Illyan's voice didn't betray any hesitation in talking about it. "I was in covert operations for a few years before the chip assignment came up. They asked for volunteers."

"You volunteered?" Somehow the news came as a surprise. She hadn't expected that he would have chosen it. Who in their right mind would choose such a life, she wondered? "I always thought it was an assignment."

"It sounded like a good idea at the time," Illyan admitted ruefully. "Eidetic, photographic memory – it sounds like a dream come true for an ImpSec agent. I couldn't have imagined what it would have been like after it was installed..." his voice dropped, "…or the process of getting it installed..."

 _It sounded like a good idea at the time._ It might as well have been her own voice saying that, lamenting her own ill-starred marriage. She squeezed his hand briefly. "It sounds like it was a painful experience..."

"No – not physically, anyway," Illyan replied. "The surgery itself was fine, but – there were twen-- quite a number of us who volunteered... and I'm the only one who managed to adapt successfully to the chip. The others developed complications, including severe schizophrenia..." He drew a breath. "It wasn't easy to adapt to."

Alys shuddered minutely. To put untested technology into the heads of his young officers – that sounded just like something Ezar would do. Anything and everything in the name of the Imperium. Sacrificial lambs, all of them... _There is nothing I can do until you beget an heir..._ "I'm sorry. It sounds terrible. But you must have been strong enough to overcome it."

"I'm not sure 'strong' is the right word. Stubborn, maybe," Illyan said wryly. He murmured something that might have been ' _but nothing compared to what you..._ '

"Was it worth it, in the end?" she asked. It was a rude question to ask someone who was practically a stranger, but Illyan was easy to talk to...

Illyan took a while to answer. "How do I put it..." he muttered, "...Professionally speaking, it helps in my job. It's an asset, but not as huge an advantage as I would have thought. One of the first things that Negri and Ezar taught me was that perfect recall is nothing without the analytical ability to go with it. There's no point having massive amounts of information if you can't draw the right conclusions from it."

"And personally speaking?" Alys said, quiet.

She couldn't hear his sigh, but she sensed it in the way his chest rose and fell. "...Negri loves the fact that I have no social life. He thinks that every ImpSec officer should be that way. Keeps us objective, he says." He was trying to joke, but she could sense the loneliness behind his words. No social life, no love life either, she would imagine. It was as effective as a barrier from the rest of the world as her marriage to Serg was. 

_Our worlds are not different as I thought we were,_ she realised.

"It must be a terrible burden," she said. 

"I thought so," Illyan answered. "But …"

She glanced up at him. He was staring into the distance, gaze unfocused. "But?"

"But if I didn't have it, I wouldn't have been assigned to the Emperor's personal staff..." he murmured, "...and I wouldn't have met you, milady."

Alys felt her eyes grow wide. Something fluttered in her chest, as though her heart, long stopped, suddenly remembered how to beat again. 

"Princess?" Illyan asked, concerned. His eyes met hers, and the loneliness in them could well have been a mirror into her own soul. Regrets, bad choices, life changing decisions that had seemed like such a good idea at the time, roads that had started from entirely different worlds and converged somehow in this nightmare.

And yet--

_\--But if I hadn't chosen Serg, I would never have met you--_

She turned her face into his shoulder as her eyes suddenly brimmed over.

"Milady?" Illyan said again, immediately distressed. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have--"

She shook her head and tightened her fingers around his. "Let me..." she whispered, "Just this once..."

In response, Illyan folded her closer. "Always, milady." 

She didn't know how long she sat there, as the hurt and grief leaked out of her at last, soaking into the fabric of Illyan's uniform. He said nothing, refusing to let go, the _thump-thump-thump_ of his heartbeat steady and reassuring, a constant in a world where nothing else was constant.

*

"Princess Alys, may I present Ludmilla Droushanakovi," Illyan said. "Captain Negri highly recommends her as a potential member of your personal staff." He smiled slightly. "He thought you would find it helpful to have someone on your staff who actually knows how to lace up a dress."

Droushanakovi was tall – taller than Illyan, even – blond and muscular, and looked as though she would have been more at home in a uniform than in the dress she wore with some unease. Lady-in-waiting indeed; it was obvious that Negri hadn't hired her on the basis of her ability to do up the Princess' hair.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Alys said gravely. "And send Captain Negri my thanks and regards as well."

"Yes, milady," Illyan bowed and headed for the door. 

Alys turned to her new … what was that position Negri had given her? Servant of the Inner Chamber? "Would you care for some tea, Ms Droushanakovi?" she asked, taking a seat and gesturing Droushanakovi to the chair opposite. 

"I would like that, milady," Droushanakovi replied, a little shy. She sat, still a little stiff and awkward. Alys made an effort to smile, trying to put her at her ease.

They spoke of safe topics while the servants brought in a light tea, and Alys noted with approval that, whatever training Negri had put Droushanakovi ( _"call me Drou, milady"_ ) through, he'd at least remembered to teach her proper dining etiquette. Inch by inch, the awkwardness started to give way, and Alys learnt that Drou had grown up in a household with a single father and three brothers, all of whom were military mad. 

"I have some martial arts training," Drou admitted, when the servants were gone. "Captain Negri said that I'd probably have to be the first responder if anyone threatened you, and it was no good if I burst into tears..."

Alys sipped her tea. "Was that all he told you?"

Drou was looking down at her teacup. She fiddled with it, betraying sudden nervousness. "Well... Lieutenant Illyan... said that not all threats are external, milady."

 _Oh, Simon,_ she thought. 

"And do you know what he means?" Alys pressed. They were treading on cracking ice here, with no room for misstep or miscommunication.

"Well..." Drou frowned. "He said..." She trailed off into uncomfortable silence.

"There are no listening devices here," Alys said. Illyan had made sure of that. "So please, speak your mind."

Drou glanced around the room as though trying to ascertain it for herself, and dropped her voice to a whisper. "The Prince... is he really like that? I can't believe it – he seems like such a wonderful person! I can't even begin to imagine that he would hurt a fly..."

Alys stared down at her cup. It was delicate bone china, hand made and hand painted, centuries old. Beautiful and fragile, the last of her favourite set. Serg had smashed the rest in a fit of rage, a few weeks back. "Drou," she said, "While I appreciate Illyan's concern, there are things that can't be solved with brute force. No matter what Serg does, you cannot lift a hand against him, do you understand? He is, after all, still the Prince."

Drou's eyes had gone very wide. "Milady..."

She was so young, Alys thought. Twenty, give or take a year or two? Alys felt positively ancient next to her, despite the fact that they were at most five years apart in age. She felt like she could hardly remember being Drou's age any more. "Promise me, Drou," she said. "The politics here are too dangerous to trifle with. I don't want... anyone to get hurt..."

How could she warn the girl adequately? There was no way she could even begin to describe Serg's cunning – he had his father's strategic genius and patience to match, and the shining charisma to warp anyone to his cause. Her grip tightened around her cup, as a sudden fear struck her. What if Serg's plan of attack was – not to hurt Drou, but to turn her against her? He'd already been effective in isolating her from everyone else she might have called a friend, except for a certain ImpSec officer who insisted on crossing boundaries...

 _I'll fight for her,_ Alys thought, but she could only summon a shadow of the vehemence that she once had. She felt completely drained, hopeless in the face of her husband. Serg always won, and he knew it...

Drou's voice broke her out of her contemplations. "I promise, milady," she said, nodding solemnly. Then she abruptly broke into a smile, one that transformed her face into something beautiful and radiant. "Don't worry. Protecting you is only one of the reasons why I'm here."

Alys blinked. "Only one..?"

Drou leaned forward, with all the sparkling enthusiasm of youth. Light, undiminished by Serg's shadow. "Well, it's a bit presumptuous, I thought, but Lieutenant Illyan said that – more than any protection, what you really needed was a friend."

"He..." for once in her life, Alys felt lost for words. _Who are you, Simon Illyan, to look into my heart like all my walls are transparent?_

 _Perfect recall is nothing without the analytical ability to go with it,_ his voice seemed to come back to her. 

"Drou," Alys said, and if the cup in her hand trembled just a little, for once it wasn't from fear or anger. "It's not presumptuous at all. I …" _What if she got hurt? I would never be able to forgive myself..._

But the die, as they put it, was already cast. She could hardly protect this girl, who had come here of her own choice, who had from all accounts accepted this assignment with open eyes. It was more than Alys could say about her own choice. 

"I... would like that," Alys said.

*

"My beautiful Alys," Serg whispered, nibbling on the shell of her ear. 

"My lord," Alys said flatly.

"So cold, Alys," Serg replied. "So dead and lifeless. I don't like you like this. What happened to the little spitfire I married?"

 _What happened, indeed?_ Alys didn't know the answer to that question either, except that that girl was long gone. 

"No smart answer? I'm disappointed," Serg continued, when she remained silent. He stepped back, eying her up and down, and Alys resisted the urge to draw her nightrobe closer. Serg's sly smile grew. "Perhaps you're finding all of this boring. Perhaps what we need is to … spice things up a little."

It was pointless to back off – there was nowhere to run to. She stepped back anyway, coming up against the windows, and dimly she registered that they were not as cold as before. The cold spell had finally broken, the weather turning gradually towards spring. Another season gone, and still they were no closer to an heir. "No, Serg," she said. It was hard even to be scared now; his antics were gradually losing their terror. He fed on her reactions, she knew, and her only way of fighting back was to not give him what he wanted. 

"I've learnt a few new games recently," Serg said, still smiling. "Perhaps you'd find them interesting. You're so boring of late, my love."

How he managed to say such terms of endearment with such ease, while betraying them with his every action, Alys would never understand. "No," she said, her voice still flat, and moved to push past him.

He struck like a snake, grabbing her shoulder and shoving her back against the wall, his favourite intimidation tactic. Alys stared up at him impassively, which prompted him to move in and claim a rough kiss. He looked disappointed when she didn't react to that either. "As I thought," he said, "We simply have to try something new--"

"Milady," Drou called loudly from the bedroom door. "Your bath is ready."

Serg glanced over his shoulder, irritation flickering across his face. Alys took the moment to squirm free. "Thank you, Drou," she replied. "I'll be right along." 

Drou nodded and backed off into the corridor. Alys made to follow, when Serg spoke. "That woman is an eyesore. She has to go."

Alys glanced back. Serg was scowling. "Drou was assigned to me by Captain Negri," Alys replied. "Do you want to take it up with him?" For all that Serg was getting worse, he still knew better than to cross Negri – or so she hoped.

The scowl on Serg's face gave way to a familiar smirk. "Clever, my little flower." He folded his arms, tapping a finger against his chin. "Do you think to hide behind Negri's influence? But even Negri won't be able to say anything if _you_ ask him to get rid of her."

Cold dread started creep up on her. "You--"

"Shall I play some games with her?" Serg said, a knowing look in his eyes. "A common servant girl... no one would be able to say anything. Even Negri wouldn't be able to voice an objection, seeing that she's not _really_ part of ImpSec."

"You wouldn't!" Alys cried, suddenly furious. Serg's eyes lit up. 

"Ah, that spark," he said, "I've missed it so. Is _this_ what it takes to get a reaction out of you, my dear? Perhaps I should sully myself with that commoner after all."

"Stay _away_ from Drou!" Alys snarled, advancing on him. Her better judgement warred against her, knowing that this was exactly what Serg wanted, knowing that it was futile and she would never win in a contest of strength... she shoved all reason aside, so angry that she was nearly blinded by it. To threaten her was one thing. To threaten those around her...

Serg laughed right in her face. "You're absolutely exquisite when you're angry. If I had known, I would have done this much earlier. Thank you, Captain Negri, for delivering such a wonderful key to my lady's heart--"

Alys slapped him, as hard as she could. Serg only grinned, before moving to grab her wrist, pulling her against him. Alys tried in vain to shove him away. 

"Jealous?" Serg asked, taunting. "Well, that's perfectly understandable – you wouldn't want to share me, after all. How about I let you watch? It would be..." he licked his lips. "...Exciting."

"You're despicable," Alys snapped, struggling desperately against his grip with a strength she didn't know she had. "You're absolutely despicable!"

"Stop _struggling_ ," Serg snapped, drawing his hand back. Alys flinched involuntarily, steeling herself for the blow.

But before the blow could land, Drou's voice interrupted them a second time with a cry of, "Unhand my lady!" Alys felt a surge of panic. _You promised me you would stay out of this!_

"Ah, the timely interruption," Serg said. "And what are you going to do about it, Miss Servant of the Inner Chamber? Are you going to get between me and my own wife?"

"I'll—" Drou started to say.

" _No,_ Drou!" Alys said, putting as much authority as she could in her voice. "Get out of here. This is none of your business!"

"Yes," Serg said, falsely amicable. "None of your business at all. I'll deal with you later."

"Princess Alys..." Drou said, looking desperately at her. 

Alys shook her head. "That was an order, Droushanakovi!"

" _But--_ " Drou cried, then stopped as someone materialised in the doorway behind her.

"Stand down, Droushanakovi." Illyan's voice, soft but clear, was cold in a way that Alys had never heard before. He placed a hand on Drou's shoulder, and Drou fell back automatically, staring at him as he moved past her to lean casually against the doorframe, eyes narrowed. "Good evening, your Highness," he said.

He was alone. What kind of rescue was he intending, Alys wondered. What was he doing here in the first place? She'd _told_ him to stay out of the way.

Serg's lips had curled into a cruel smile. "Lieutenant Illyan," he said. "Welcome to my humble parlour."

Illyan raised an eyebrow, and Alys' confusion only grew as he calmly hooked a finger into the collar of his uniform tunic and undid the top button. The movement was deliberate in its provocation. "I believe we had a deal, my Prince," Illyan said. 

Serg's smile never flickered. "So we did, Lieutenant. So we did. Are you off duty?"

"Lieutenant Illyan--" Alys started, but Illyan paid her no heed at all.

"I am," he replied to Serg. "Of course, I could go on duty at any moment." His eyes glinted. "I believe I said it before, I don't like sharing."

"So demanding, Simon," Serg said, releasing Alys. 

Hearing Serg addressing Illyan so casually wrenched at Alys' heart. " _What deal,_ Illyan?" she demanded, striding over towards him. "What's going on here?" Fear for him made her words harsh. 

Illyan met her eyes only briefly as he pushed himself off the doorframe and strode past. His expression was utterly closed. "Miss Droushanakovi," he said, "I believe the Princess was heading for her bath. Please escort her to it. His Highness and I have matters to discuss."

"Illyan—" Alys grabbed his arm, only to find herself shaken off.

"Your bath awaits, milady," Illyan said, coolly distant. He jerked his chin at Drou, who snapped out of her shock to grab Alys' arm.

"This way, milady," Drou said, all but dragging her out of the room. Alys, recognising when protest was futile, trailed after, glancing back at Illyan over her shoulder. The last thing she saw before Drou shut the doors behind them was the sight of Serg thumbing the buttons of Illyan's uniform tunic open.

*

She waited for Illyan in his room, despite Drou's protests. It was hours before he returned, which gave Alys plenty of time to sort through her jumble of emotions. What emerged was anger, white hot, seething through her veins and burning away all the cold numbness that had settled in through the long, dark winter. She was thoroughly mad at him, more furious than she'd ever been before, even at Serg. Unable to even sit in patience, she paced the length of his room, up and down, pausing only to stand by the window and glare at the view of the Emperor's gardens outside. 

What was he _thinking_ , she wondered, but she knew exactly what he was trying to do, and it made her want to scream. She had told him not to get involved, hadn't she? She'd _warned_ him about Serg, and rather than listen to her, he had thrown himself into the breach out of some misplaced sense of heroism. An idiot, through and through.

 

He stumbled back into his room shortly before dawn, so thoroughly exhausted that he didn't even register Alys standing in the corner until he was standing in front of his bed, wearily shrugging out of his uniform tunic. She moved; he jumped, ImpSec paranoia kicking in as he automatically went for his stunner.

"Are you going to shoot me too, Lieutenant Illyan?" Alys asked archly. His eyes widened and his hand dropped away from his weapon like he'd been burnt. 

"Milady! I didn't recognise... What are you… " He looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

"I'm the one who should be asking that question," she said, striding over and grabbing his wrist. He winced, which was all the clue she needed to push his sleeve up. The skin below was reddened and starting to bruise. Her own fingers tightened around his hand. "You... what did you think you were doing?" she asked, her voice quiet.

"Milady..."

" _What did you think you were doing?_ " Alys yelled, etiquette flying out of the window. It took every ounce of her willpower to bring her voice back under some semblance of control. "I told you not to get involved! I _told_ you Serg was dangerous!" 

"I..." in contrast to his confidence in front of Serg earlier, he seemed utterly lost.

She let go of his hand, only give in to her baser instinct to grab him by the opened collar of his tunic. "Do you think this changes anything? Do you think this makes anything better, other than giving Serg _two_ targets? Did you think that by... striking this _deal_ with him, you could _save me?_ "

Illyan had looked away in the face of the onslaught. His hands, hanging loose by his sides, curled into fists. " _Better than my not doing anything at all!_ " 

It was the first time Alys had ever heard him raise his voice. Surprise made her lose her grip on him, and when her fingers uncurled from his uniform, he glanced back at her. 

"What deal did you strike with Serg?" she asked, stepping away from him. She didn't trust herself not to hit him. 

Illyan stumbled back and collapsed bonelessly onto the couch. Head hanging, he addressed his words to the floor. "I think it's fairly obvious."

"I'm _done_ with guessing games," Alys snapped. 

Illyan sighed. "Succinctly put - your safety for my company." 

"And why would Serg accept anything like that? It's not like he couldn't have his pick of officers in the Imperial Service. Goodness knows they'd throw themselves at his feet if he so much as asked. Male and female both."

"But he couldn't have me," Illyan replied, weariness threading through his words. "As the Emperor's property, I was untouchable to him, and therefore irresistible. He always wanted to play with his father's toys." He ran his hands through his hair. "Milady, there was no way you would have agreed--"

"And so you didn't think to ask?" Alys said. Her voice dropped, but this time it was because her anger was running cold and deadly. "So you just decided to--"

Illyan tensed, clenched his teeth. "And you think it's just about you?" he snapped, and she knew that she had pushed him beyond his limits. "There are wider concerns at play here. The very future of the Imperium is at stake!"

The words were like a bolt through Alys' chest. Anger melted away in an instant, leaving only a hollow, empty ache. "So... that's what this is about?" she whispered. "It was never about me, was it? Just another of your … ImpSec concerns." She felt a lump rising up in her throat and spun away from him, heading towards the door. She had been a fool, such a fool...

 _Confused?_ Serg's voice seemed to mock her. _You're such a weak woman. First you don't want him to rescue you for your sake, and then you get all hurt when he admits that it wasn't for your sake at all..._

 _Shut up,_ she told that voice. _Just shut up, just leave me be..._

 _You know it for the truth,_ the reply came back, sibilant. 

"Alys!" she heard Illyan rise, and he crossed the floor in an instant, catching her hand before she could retreat. "I'm sorry," he said, in the ghost of a voice. 

She didn't turn around. "Release me, Lieutenant Illyan." Her voice shook despite her best efforts.

"Is it such a crime to want to protect you?" Illyan whispered, and those words brought her up short.

"Why, Simon?" she asked. "Why do you want to do it?" She slipped her hand out of his grasp, turned to face him. "Is it Imperial concerns? Is it pity? Dreams of heroism?"

If he had been expressionless in front of Serg, his face was an open book now, and the raw pain in his eyes burned at her own heart. "You steal all the reasons from my mouth and turn them into dust, milady," he said.

She was doing the very thing that Serg loved to do, she realised with a start. He was a master at twisting every noble intention, every praiseworthy action, every good deed, into something evil and self-centered. She'd sewn him shirts and he'd mocked them, she'd organised all manner of social events for him and he'd accused her of showing off, she'd brought him presents and he'd cast them into the mud. And somewhere along the line, all that pent-up bitterness had twisted her into the same monster that he was...

"I..." she said, but no amount of apologies were going to fix this, were they? Her vision splintered as water flooded her eyes, and for a moment it seemed that she stood in front of Padma, breaking his heart all over again. 

_And just who is the monster here?_ she wondered. Perhaps it wasn't Serg's fault that she was alone. Perhaps she was alone because she had driven everyone who ever cared away from her side.

"I don't deserve you," she whispered.

Soft fabric dabbed at her eyes. Padma was gone again; it was Illyan, drying her tears with his handkerchief. "Please don't say that," he said quietly. "You're right, I should have … asked you …" he glanced to the side, and his own eyes were too bright. "I just couldn't think of any better solution, this seemed like the only way..."

"Does Negri know?" Alys asked. "Or Ezar?"

Mutely, Illyan shook his head. 

All on his own accord, doing what he could because no one else would intervene... 

The anger was all gone now, and Alys realised what was left in its wake was a panicked sense of protectiveness and possessiveness. She didn't want to lose him, especially not to Serg. She didn't want to see him go through what she had, didn't want to see those marks on his skin, that pain that he tried to hide away behind a mask of blankness. "If only..." she said, the words spilling out of her in painful, frustrated honesty, "If only I could just... conceive! Then all this could end, all of this could..."

"It's not something you should blame yourself for, milady," Illyan replied.

She bit her lip. "It doesn't matter whose fault it is, does it? As long as..." Despair made her choke on her words.

Illyan had evidently run out of words himself, for he drew her tentatively into an embrace instead of replying, rubbing a soothing hand against her back. He was the right height for her to rest her chin on his shoulder, shorter and slighter than Serg. From this angle, Alys could see that his hair was a little longer than the regulation cut, the longer strands starting to touch his collar. She stared at those dark blond strands, thinking about how they were so similar to Serg's, and by the most gradual of degrees, a small, mad idea started growing in the back of her mind. "A plan where no other plan will work..." she murmured.

"I beg your pardon?" Illyan asked. 

Alys stood back, looking at him consideringly. Hope fluttered its wings desperately at the prospect of freedom. "Simon..." 

"Milady?" 

Suddenly, it seemed harder to breathe, and the room seemed darker and _closer_ , secrets whispering in the shadows. "How … prevalent is gene scan technology on Barrayar?"

Illyan blinked. "One could always send a sample to Beta Colony or Escobar for testing – on a galactic scale, that's quite readily available."

"And what of Barrayar itself?" Alys said, very quietly.

"We don't have it, that I'm aware of," Illyan said. "That is, Imperial Service doesn't have it. It's possible that a civilian may – though the possibility is small. Why … do you ask?"

It was a foolish notion. More than just foolishness – it was a gamble with the very fate of the Imperium on the table. But if Serg couldn't give her a son, and Simon could...

 _No one would ever need to know._ The thought was so palpable that for a moment she thought that someone whispered it right into her ear. She glanced over her shoulder, sharply, but there was no one there.

"Alys," Illyan said, "What are you planning?" 

"If," Alys said, very slowly, and wondered why something that she wanted so much was so hard to give voice to, "I were to bear a son, who would dare to query who the father was?"

Illyan went pale. "Princess..."

The use of her title had to be deliberate. The word slashed right into her rising hope, and for a moment she raged against it. Unfair. _Unfair_. Barrayar didn't need the blood of Mad Emperor Yuri in the veins of its princes. If there were any fairness at all, it should have been Illyan's blood, with its nobility, its gentleness, its bright burning devotion to Barrayar...

 _Vor,_ she thought bitterly. _What are we except a delusion of grandeur..._

"Simon," she said. Quietly. Determinedly.

Doubt quietened in his face at the ring of authority in her voice. She knew, in that instant, that if she only asked, he would not be able to deny her. All she had to do was reach out her hand, and take. 

_But,_ something else said within her, a small voice, a tiny voice, _Vor also means duty._

Something clashed within her, so violent that she nearly stumbled under the force of it. The silence seemed to shatter, temptation rearing hydra heads, a noose around her neck that seemed to choke the very air from her lungs. Rallied against that was the weight of duty, chains around her feet, stones dragging her down, down, down into the deep...

She couldn't tell which was killing her more, only that they both would. Her fingers clawed at her skirts, a scream wanting to rise up, but failing to get past her throat. She swallowed it, the same way she'd swallowed all her tears, all her anger, all her grief. _Unfair_. And Simon was looking at her as though he wanted to reach out and protect her, except that he didn't know how. 

This enemy was one that was far beyond him, for it lay in her own heart.

So close to freedom. So close to being able to get away from Serg and his viper eyes, his serpent's smile. No one ever had to know. No one ever had to find out. She could have her child, Barrayar could have its prince, Serg could have his heir, and everyone would be happy.

And _yet_...

Nightmare scenarios danced in her mind's eye, of a Barrayar torn apart by civil war if the truth that their Emperor was a bastard ever came to light. Serg tearing the baby limb from limb, when he found out it wasn't his own. Ezar's wrath, her father's frown, her own sense of duty, shattered on the altar of cowardice and self-indulgence.

She could not do this and still be who she was.

"Simon," she said again, and this time the word escaped as a tiny, choked sob. Simon moved, pulling her into his arms and holding her close. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered into her ear, over and over again. But his voice seemed to bring a sudden clarity with them, chasing away the trailing fingers of shadows that wrapped around them. Temptation hissed, then backed down, then slithered back to the lair from which it had come from. In its retreat, she stumbled, then steadied, finding her balance again. Finding _herself_ again. 

The chains of duty fell away, becoming steps that bore her up, up, up, on the strength of Simon's arms, on the strength of the thousands who looked to her as their Princess, who would throw themselves under her feet to make sure her honour remained unstained. 

She could hardly betray them and ever look them in the eye again. 

From that thought she drew a sudden strength, and abruptly, found that she could breathe again. That was her duty – not to bear an heir, not to have a son whatever the means, but to protect Barrayar's fragile future. 

"No," she whispered to Simon, and she wondered at the newfound sense of peace that seemed to settle, quietly as a blanket of freshly fallen snow, around her. "No, there's nothing to apologise for." 

*

The last of winter gave way to spring, and from spring came new life. 

"Congratulations, Alys," Ezar said. His dark gaze was intent.

Alys pressed a hand to her growing belly, as though the gesture could shield her son from the Emperor's regard, and the curse of Imperial power. But that was a curse that she could not protect him from. Her son was yet to be born, and already she felt helpless. "Thank you, sire."

"Formality," Ezar waved it off. "We can dispense with it." He leaned back, lacing his fingers together. "Serg will be pleased to hear that it's a boy, I'm sure. Have you informed him?"

"Not in person – he wasn't around," Alys replied. "I'm sure the doctor sent a note."

"Ah yes. Out for dinner with Grishnov again." Ezar looked faintly disgusted. "It was too much to hope for that your good influence would rub off on him."

She wasn't sure how to respond to that. Was it subtle criticism? With Serg, it certainly would have been. With Ezar, she wasn't so sure. She rarely dealt with Serg's impressive father. He had terrified her when she had first come to the Residence. It was perhaps a sign of how much things had changed that the sight of him evoked absolutely nothing in her now. "Is that so," she replied tonelessly.

Ezar studied her intently for a moment. "It's been hard on you," he observed. Just as she wasn't sure whether his previous statement had been criticism, she wasn't sure if this was sympathy, or just an observation. "But you've performed your duty admirably," Ezar continued, when she didn't respond. "Your new quarters are ready; Serg shouldn't be troubling you any more."

Good news, at last, after so long. Her heart managed a small leap of joy. "Thank you--"

"Don't thank me," Ezar said, then his stern expression softened fractionally. "Go. Enjoy your hard earned peace."

It was over. It was truly over, and she could barely believe it. It took a few seconds for the news to really sink in, but when it did, it felt like the blossoming of true spring, warmth and light and laughter in a frozen land that had forgotten the feel of the sun. And like rush of new life into springtime, she felt a surge of energy that all but sent her catapulting out of her seat in a flurry of skirts. Her first thought was _I need to tell Simon._

In her excitement completely forgot to curtsey to Ezar as she all but ran out of the sitting room. Drou, waiting for her outside, shot to her feet in alarm upon seeing her in such a hurry. "Is everything alright, milady?"

"Oh, Drou," she said, catching her hands and unable to stop the smile that blossomed on her face. "We're moving out of Serg's rooms. Ezar has prepared a whole new suite of rooms for us."

It was marvellous, the way Drou's face lit up upon hearing that. "That's absolutely _wonderful_ , milady," Drou said. "I'll make the arrangements to start moving straightaway. I'm sure you wouldn't want to spend another night in that beastly wing."

"Thank you, Drou," Alys squeezed her hands. " _Thank you_. Please, do that. I'll be along shortly to help."

Drou nodded, and ventured a shy smile. "Congratulations, milady. I still think it's awful how we don't celebrate until the doctors can confirm that it's a boy, though." She sniffed.

Alys patted her hand. "I know, and maybe one day that will change, but for now, I'm just glad."

Drou grinned. "You go do what you need to do, and don't worry at all about the move. I'll get everything arranged for you."

If Drou had any idea about her dalliances with Illyan, she gave absolutely no sign of it. Walking towards Illyan's room, Alys silently thanked Negri and Illyan for recruiting Drou for her. She was one of the greatest blessings to come out of this entire nightmare; her and Illyan both. _If I hadn't chosen Serg, I would never have met both of you..._

It was easier to let go of the regret now, easier to come to terms with the choice she had made. She searched her heart, a little curious, a little hesitant about re-opening old wounds, but to her surprise, she found that the worst of the pain had faded away. She wasn't at peace, not quite, not yet, but something had healed, and the smallest seed of hope had started to bloom once more.

Illyan wasn't in the tiny room that served as his Residence office. He hadn't been attending on Ezar either, which made Alys wonder if he'd left the Residence on some assignment. Negri would know where he was, Alys figured, but she'd never spoken to Negri about her interactions with Illyan, and she didn't want to know just how much he knew about them. And asking him about Illyan's whereabouts was a dead giveaway...

She was just contemplating this dilemma when an Ensign popped into the office to leave a report on Illyan's desk. He blinked at her in some surprise, before remembering his manners and bowing courteously. "Were you looking for Lieutenant Illyan, ma'am?" he asked. "He called in sick today. Said he would be back tomorrow."

"I see," Alys nodded at him. "Thank you." 

"No problem, ma'am," the Ensign chirped, and saluted - _incorrect protocol_ \- before leaving the office in a hurry.

 _Sick,_ Alys thought, and wondered whether it was a good idea to disturb him. Then she thought of Reddi-meal wrappers in his bin, and made a face, before setting off in the direction of his room.

 

He didn't answer when she rang the doorbell. Alys hesitated a moment before trying the door handle, and blinked in surprise when it opened. The room beyond was dark, the curtains drawn to block out bright afternoon sun, and for a moment she thought it was empty, until she caught the sound of a ragged breath.

"Simon?" she called out, very softly, not wanting to startle him if he was still asleep - _but it's not like him to sleep right through someone walking into his room, is it?_ \- before slipping in. The sight that greeted her sent her spirits plummeting straight down.

Illyan was curled up on the bed, still dressed in his uniform trousers. His tunic was entangled around one arm, the buttons torn loose and littered across the bed and the floor, and she spotted his dress shirt in a discarded pile on the couch. His chest rose unevenly with stuttering breaths, and even in the dim light from the door, she could make out the red lines across his forearms and his chest, along with the darker spots that she recognised as burns. Shockstick burns. 

_Serg,_ she thought. 

She could have sworn that she hadn't moved or made a noise, but Illyan shot awake any way, grabbing his stunner off his sidetable in the same move. "Simon," she called out, softly, and saw him jump before lowering the stunner very slowly. She eased the door quietly shut behind her and turned on the lights. 

Simon dropped the gun and scrambled to pull his tunic on, holding it closed with his hand. "...Princess," he said, refusing to meet her eyes. "Could you give me … a few minutes?"

Her lips compressed into a line, the earlier joy she had felt completely gone. She said nothing, merely marching to his cabinet to pull out a fresh set of dress greens and handing them to him, careful to look away – it was obvious that he didn't want her to see him in this state. 

He murmured his thanks before stumbling out of bed and heading towards the bathroom. Feeling more than a little lost, Alys picked the buttons off the bed and the floor, placing them neatly on the bedside table, then picked up the discarded shirt and folded it. _You should have known that it wouldn't be this simple,_ an inner voice chastised her. Serg had all but lost interest in her when she'd first told him that she was pregnant – to be precise, he seemed to have lost interest in her quite a while before. She had thought it a matter of him simply getting bored; she should have known that it was because he had found something more interesting.

 _What kind of Princess are you?_ the inner voice continued, _You never thought to ask, never thought to check; you were all wrapped up in your own world that you never thought to look around... there must have been signs, but you missed them all, didn't you? When was the last time you saw Simon? When was the last time you asked him how he was?_

She heard the sound of running water from the bathroom. Simon would never have admitted the truth to her, she knew. But Negri should have noticed. _Someone_ should have noticed.

_And, even if there was someone close enough to notice – and who is closer to him than you? - who would have cared enough to do anything? Who would have been in any position to do anything? If you thought you were helpless against Serg, what less a junior officer who voluntarily took your curse upon his shoulders?_

She shook her head angrily, feeling like she was still in shock. Illyan had the Emperor's protection, didn't he? _Didn't he?_

And how much would Ezar care, if Illyan lived or died? And how much did she dare to assume? She'd made so many mistakes because of ill-placed assumptions …

 _But Serg,_ something cautioned her, and that thought brought with it a surge of the old, old fear.

She'd never thought of herself as being particularly cowardly before her marriage. If anything, she'd thought herself reasonably bold. But she hadn't known what real fear was, back then. And no matter how bold one was, the body didn't forget pain so easily. There would always be that hesitation, that moment of conscious choice whether to fling itself into the line of fire again. The memory of that pain pleaded for caution, and caution in turn pleaded for time to sit and assess the situation. Ezar and Negri had their eye on the situation, and it was a situation far too complex to charge into recklessly. It would sort itself out, given time. She would be safe as long as she allowed things to play out naturally. 

...But she would lose Simon.

The thought came out of nowhere, with heart-stopping certainty, and hauled her up short. Her first reaction was denial; her second, hard on its heels, was horrified realisation.

Simon had thought that Serg's interest in him was merely a desire to obtain what seemed to be out of reach. He had, Alys thought, completely underestimated Serg's capacity for games... and for revenge. Because that was what this was about – revenge for Simon's intervention, for spoiling his sport. This wasn't just about indulging Serg's warped pleasures; this was a trap, finely crafted and played out over months, designed to destroy the junior officer who had dared to challenge the Crown Prince of the Imperium. 

The door hadn't been locked when she had come into the room, but there was no way that Simon would have left it unlocked behind him, no matter what state he was in. No, Serg had been in here, Alys was sure, and had failed to lock the door when he left. He'd _wanted_ someone to walk in and find Simon in the state he'd left him, a report that would have travelled back to Negri and Ezar, and very likely ended Simon's career dead in its tracks when it became clear just who had shared his bed. The nightmare scenario unfurled in horrifying clarity in her mind's eye. A dishonourable discharge in order to cover up the Imperial scandal – Serg's darker proclivities were not known to the wider public, and she knew Ezar and Negri fought hard to keep it that way. A nosedive into absolute disgrace and destitution, reputation and livelihood ruined beyond repair – and when life became too hard to live, Simon would put a nerve disruptor to his own head and pull the trigger, and Serg would never even have to lift a finger. 

Death alone was far too easy, in Serg's books. 

She was shaking at the thought of it, at the thought of how it had been _so close_ to happening. But just because she had foiled Serg's plan this round, however inadvertently, didn't mean the game was anywhere near to over. 

The bathroom door clicked open as Simon emerged, towelling his hair dry. His dress greens concealed the marks, just as they'd fought to conceal Serg's sins for far too long. He blinked owlishly at Alys, evidently still not tracking properly, and Alys wondered if he'd been drugged. Or mildly stunned. 

"You're still here," he said, then hastened to add, "Not that you're unwelcomed. Sorry about pointing a stunner at you earlier--" he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "That's a capital crime, isn't it. Oh God..."

"Simon," Alys said. "You're babbling."

He shut up immediately, leaning heavily against the wall and massaging his temples. "...I never wanted... you didn't have to... you shouldn't have seen this..."

She'd been such a fool to believe that it was all over just because she'd conceived the long hoped for son. No – not a fool, she'd been utterly selfish and self-absorbed, too wrapped up in her own world to pay attention to the people around her. _Her_ people, who had taken the fall for her, who had literally bled for her, who had nearly crucified themselves on their duty to her, while she … sat by and did nothing. 

_And we, as Vor, think that the non-Vor are somehow less than we are. Oh Barrayar..._

"I needed to," Alys said quietly, and the note of steely resolve in her voice surprised even her. 

Simon moved to protest, but Alys held up a hand, and he lapsed into silence. "When I married Serg. I knew I was accepting more than just his hand," she met his gaze squarely. "I accepted Barrayar's too. And I will not stand by any longer and watch him drag her into ruin." _As he nearly did to me._

"Milady... what are you implying?" Simon said, and Alys heard fear for her in his voice. It made her realise how tired she was of being protected. 

"Only that it is my hope that the Barrayar that my son is born into will be a kinder world than this one," she replied, and saw his eyebrows.

"Your son? Congratulations, milady," he said, then broke into a broad smile.

She'd never seen him smile like that before, she realised. She'd seen him intent, thoughtful, bland, perplexed, exhausted – but she'd never seen him truly _happy_. _That,_ Alys thought, _That is the expression I want to preserve forever..._

She'd successfully diverted him. And while Simon had some skill in turning a conversation to the topics he wanted to talk about, Alys had far more. Overriding his attempts to tease more information out of her, she bullied him into letting her see to the worst of his burns and then ordered him to get some rest before escaping. 

Her steps as she left his room were more purposive than they had been in longer than she could remember.

*

The room that Ezar liked to conduct his informal business in was upholstered in silk in a pale shade of pine green. It was supposedly a soothing colour – Alys found it did nothing for her nerves. It apparently did nothing for Ezar's either, judging by the faintly annoyed expression he bore when she walked in.

"Ah, Princess. It isn't often that you ask to see me." Ezar waved his hand at the armchair opposite. "Sit. What was it that was so urgent that you had to strongarm my secretary into rearranging my schedule for you? 

He sounded tired. He _looked_ tired, and Alys realised with a start that he seemed to have aged dramatically within the past year or so. His hair was entirely white now, his skin tone sallow. His right hand, holding a glass of amber coloured liquid, shook very slightly. 

_He really is dying,_ Alys realised with a start. "It's about Serg," she opened, without preamble.

"Haven't I already given you your freedom?" Ezar said, exasperated. "What more do you want? An entirely different palace?"

"For myself, nothing," Alys countered. "For Barrayar, everything."

"That's rather demanding, don't you think? I'm the Emperor, not God." His voice was still more than a little dismissive. 

It was a test, Alys knew. A test of resolve. And Ezar, she knew, was a man of action rather than words – as unlike his son in that department as one could ever be – if she didn't arrest his attention immediately, she stood no chance. She met his gaze, feeling a strange sense of calm. This should have been terrifying, she knew, but it somehow wasn't. It was as though she had found her feet in the middle of a tempest, and nothing in the storm could budge her. "Do you truly intend to hand Barrayar over to Prince Serg?" she asked. 

Ezar's eyes narrowed, and she sense his attention on her in a way it hadn't been before. It did nothing to rock her newfound stability. "You speak of the man who will one day be Emperor of Barrayar," Ezar said, his voice suddenly quietly menacing. 

"No," Alys said. "I speak of the man who _may _one day be Emperor of Barrayar." She took a breath. "And that may be the worst mistake that Barrayar ever makes."__

"...Go on." Ezar seemed content to let her do all the talking. Alys knew better than to let that happen. She had seen Ezar let too many people dig themselves into their own graves that way. He might have preferred action to words, but in no way meant that he couldn't and didn't use words as a weapon. Everything and anything on Barrayar was his weapon. 

"You know what I speak of," Alys said calmly. "I didn't come here to tell you what you already know. I came to ask what you propose to do."

"And if I say I propose to do nothing?" Ezar countered.

"Then, sire, I would need to keep bothering you until you tell me the truth," Alys replied. 

Ezar drained the glass and placed it on the table. He leaned back, steepling his fingers and regarding her over the tops of them. "You speak as though you have a right to know."

"Do I not?" Alys shot back. "But it's more than just idle curiosity, if that's what you're implying. I know you have a plan. I also know that it's stalled."

There was a sudden silence in the room. Ezar's expression never so much as flickered, but Alys knew in his very stillness that she had hit the nail on the head. Finally, after what seemed to be a minor eternity, Ezar stirred. "Amusing. Shots in the dark, girl?" he said.

"Is that the game you intend to play?" Alys asked, her tone just a little arch. She moderated it. "Even if I didn't know before, that long pause of yours just confirmed it."

Ezar … _smirked_. "And how did you know? Did you bed someone to find out?"

"Perish the thought," Alys muttered, then wondered if it was a subtle jab at her interactions with Simon – no. Couldn't be. She decided to let it slide. "There is... a sense to the Residence. I thought at first that it was the calm before the storm, but there is a … stretched quality to it. It's not the calm before the storm any more. It's the calm of a dead sea with no wind, in a boat with sails but no oars. And then there is the fact that an unusual number of high ranking officers have been passing through these corridors, in varying degrees of stress. Or there was, until a few weeks ago, when it all came to an abrupt halt." She resisted the urge to lean forward. She was the pillar; she did not budge. "Do you perhaps need some wind in your sails, sire?"

"Impressive, my dear," Ezar replied. He studied her for another long moment, before apparently arriving at some internal conclusion. "How do you foresee Barrayar, under Serg?" he asked.

Diversion? She would not be so easily waylaid. "I believe I asked a question first."

Ezar's expression was deathly serious this time. "One that I am not minded to answer until I know where you stand," he said. "Answer the question."

"If he is left unchecked; if nothing changes, I see … potentially, another Mad Emperor Yuri," Alys replied quietly. 

"And what solution do you propose?" Something had changed in Ezar's tone – this was definitely not a diversion. 

"There are only two possible roads," Alys said. Oh, how she had lain awake at night, agonising over this particular question, trying to find another way. Serg... so much had occurred between them, spilling out to affect Drou, Simon... but he was still her _husband_. "Either Serg must change, or he cannot inherit."

"And," Ezar's voice was harsh, "Do you think that change is possible?"

Her hands, lying in her lap, curled slowly in the fabrics of her skirts. "I have tried what I can. It is beyond me." 

The silence in the room was oppressive. It felt hard to breathe. Harder even to hope, but Alys tried to hold on to it anyway. If anyone could change Serg...

"...And beyond me as well," Ezar sighed, and for the briefest of moments, Alys saw a father in him, and not just the absolute ruler of Barrayar. "You were my last hope."

"Then," Alys said, very quietly, "Do you intend to disinherit him?"

"Princess," Ezar said. "I will give you but one chance to back out of this. If you leave this room now, we may yet pretend that this conversation never happened. If you persist in this line of enquiry... there is no turning back ever again, no matter how much you may wish to."

 _No,_ she thought, remembering the angry red burns on Simon's skin, and the finer lines of barely healed scars that she didn't think were from his ImpSec work. _No more running._ "I am Vor, sire. We do not run," she said. 

She thought, perhaps, that she felt a glimmer of Ezar's approval. "Very well," he said, "If that is what you choose." 

Alys was sure that he had made no signal, tapped no button on his wristcomm, but the door opened and Negri stepped in, carrying an unmarked folder. He came to Ezar's side and laid it on the table, then moved to lean against the wall behind the Emperor, silent and watchful.

"This," Ezar tapped the file, "Contains death. That much, at least, I owe my son – that his name will not be dishonoured throughout the generations." He pushed the file towards her. Very gingerly, Alys picked it up and flipped it open. 

_Serg,_ Alys thought, her heart twisting within her. _If only..._

"In brief, the plan is that once preparations are complete, the home fleet will leave with Escobar, with Serg at its head," Ezar continued. "When it returns, it will be without him."

Alys felt the shock stab right through her. And here she had thought that there was nothing more that Barrayar could throw at her that would faze her... "You're sending them to lose? But all the other..."

Ezar's expression had gone as cold and hard as stone. "Serg's corruption is not the only cancer that Barrayar must deal with."

"But surely not everyone aboard the home fleet is part of this! What about all those soldiers who only seek to serve their Emperor? To serve Barrayar?" _Simon,_ Alys thought, remembering a story, quietly recounted, of a pair of parents who only wanted to put their only son through college... 

"The number of deaths will pale in comparison to the number who will die if Serg becomes Emperor," Ezar replied. "And by their sacrifice, we will carve out a new Barrayar."

"Surely..." Alys said, her voice very nearly a whisper, "There is some other way..."

"Assassination?" Ezar said, "Shot in the back like a dog?" He passed a hand over his eyes. "Messy. The inquiry for the death of a Crown Prince can never be closed. And there is no possibility of a ruling of natural causes until all other causes have been absolutely ruled out. And in doing so they will dig up everything on him, his background, the people whom he saw, dealt with, _slept with_. Things that should not see the light of day."

"And so you would sacrifice thousands of loyal soldiers just to protect his honour?" Alys said. "From a dishonour that he heaped upon himself? And you claim that this is in Barrayar's interests?"

"If Serg's … indiscretions … are ever discovered," Ezar said, glacial, "Then more than just his honour is at stake. Consider the ramifications if it ever becomes known the Vorbarra bloodline still carries Yuri's madness. Especially for you, who carry his heir. If we were to weigh things to a nicety in our little scales, how many lives would be lost then, as the circling vultures rip Barrayar to shreds in their fight for succession?"

She stared at the words on the file in front of her, unseeing. _Who are we to judge, who are we to ..._ "There has to be another way... a better way..."

"Then tell me one," Ezar said. "Because I certainly can't think of another."

Alys closed her eyes, desperately searching for that clarity of mind that she'd possessed when she'd walked into this room. It spiralled out of reach, wheeling into the abyss. She scrambled after it, tripping, stumbling, falling. 

"Alys," Negri said, "You speak to the man who will hold nothing back from Barrayar, not even his own son."

Her eyes snapped open. Ezar was watching her, austere and implacable, but Alys saw the lines in his face, carved by decades upon decades of service and sacrifice. _Duty_. The honour of the Vor, battered, bruised, but not broken. 

This wasn't what she had sought, when she had come here looking for answers. But now that she was here, she realised that she hadn't really thought of what the answer might be, had only shied away from the possibilities, hoping for something elegant and simple. 

But there were no happy endings, were there? There was only night and the fire of pyres that lighted the dawn to a new day. 

_And by their sacrifice, we will carve out a new Barrayar._

_Only that it is my hope that the Barrayar that my son is born into will be a kinder world than this one..._

She wondered if she would ever be able to sleep again, with this knowledge engraved on her heart. But this, at the end of the day, was a door she had opened herself, opened and stepped through, knowing that there was no way of ever backing out again. She took a deep breath. "So, what remains to be done?"

"Almost everything is complete," Ezar replied, "But there is one last piece that refuses to fall into place. The one I need to ensure that there is no possibility of failure. My attempts to convince him have thus far been unsuccessful."

Alys looked up. "And who is this person?" 

"Lord Captain Aral Vorkosigan," Ezar said. "You may have heard of him." 

By this act, the blood of all those who died at Escobar would be on her hands too. But Ezar was right – there was no way she could go back to her old life now, to blissful ignorance. For if they failed, if thousands died in vain at Escobar, and countless more died when Serg returned, the tide of blood then would surely drown all of them in it. "I know him," Alys replied quietly. "Leave him to me."

*

The room was very quiet when Vorkosigan left, the door clicking shut and leaving her alone. It was as though the green silks swallowed all noise, burying the deepest secrets of the Imperium beneath the appearance of serene luxury. Alys leaned back in her chair and resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands. 

The silence barely rippled when the door opened again, and Ezar stepped in. He was alone.

"He'll do it," Alys said, without preamble.

"He agreed, then," Ezar said.

"Not out loud. But he will." She had seen it in his eyes. 

Ezar made a thoughtful noise. "As a matter of fact, he already has. At least, so far as saying ' _Damn you, old man'_ was acceptance." For a second, he looked darkly amused. Then that piercing gaze centred on her again. "You truly are an asset. How did you convince him?"

Alys shrugged, too worn to celebrate her victory. No – it wasn't a victory at all, just another piece in an elaborate murder. Murder by any other name... She had thought that she would have even the slightest bit been joyful at the thought of being free of Serg forever, but she found no such joy in her heart at all. "I didn't," she said. "I spoke to him of duty." _And he is true Vor._

Ezar was silent for a long moment, watching her carefully and giving nothing away. Finally, just as Alys was about to stand and leave, unable to sit in this room any longer, he spoke. "It'll take about three months for the preparations to be complete."

"I see," she said.

"Enough time to say goodbyes, I would think," Ezar said. The corner of his mouth twitched. "You may be interested to know that I'm sending Illyan to Escobar."

Those words sent a bolt of horror right through her. After all that, after all her effort to work to protect him, to lose him this way... "Illyan?" 

Ezar snorted. "Your young ImpSec Lieutenant. He's taken quite a shine to you, you know. To the extent of daring to take Serg head on..." He shook his head. "Ah, the follies of youth. But I'm not complaining. Here I was thinking he would never step up to a challenge."

 _To the extent of..._ She met Ezar's knowing gaze, and realised with a chill how little escaped his eyes. 

"Courage is not something that Lieutenant Illyan lacks," Alys said evenly. "Anyone who volunteers to have something like an eidetic memory chip installed in his head in the name of service to his Emperor is not someone who would run from a challenge."

Ezar inclined his head. "Fair point."

"Then why are you sending him?" Alys asked. "Is it because he took Serg on? Because Serg bedded him? Are you trying to bury that secret beneath a mountain of corpses as well?" Her voice was rock steady, but anger laced the words. More than laced. It burned through them, a shining line against the night sky. "Because Serg got his hands on _your toy_?"

Ezar smiled a tiny smile, and Alys wondered if this was all a test, or a way of fishing for information. "And I see you've taken quite a shine to him too." He flicked his fingers, dismissive. "No, I'm sending him because there's nothing more he can learn from me or from this place." He looked around the room with a measure of distaste. "But there is still much that he can learn from Vorkosigan. I would be _extremely_ disappointed if he doesn't come back from Escobar. Negri and I have plans for him."

Plans upon plans upon plans. A tangled web of politics and lies, spider silk upon which the Emperor weaved a tapestry of death. This place never changed. But Ezar's words eased the tightness in her chest a little. For the first time, she felt like she could see beyond the carnage, into the hope that lay beyond.

Ezar folded his arms. "Mind you - that, like everything else that has been said in this room, is confidential. You're in possession of some of the Imperium's deepest, darkest secrets now, my girl. Make sure you guard them well." 

"I can do nothing less," Alys returned. She rose from her seat, nodding serenely at Ezar as she crossed the room to the door, and strode forward into the future. 

*

It was another deep night in winter when Simon returned. Alys, watching her son sleep, heard a small commotion in the foyer of her suites, heard Drou yell happily, felt her heart leap into her throat. 

She'd hardly dared to believe that he would return. The carnage at Escobar had haunted her nights, the news reports playing over and over again even when she closed her eyes. She'd held Gregor close and thought of Serg, and in the darkness, she'd wept silently for the man who might have been Emperor. The man she'd loved, once. 

As for Simon, she had hardly dared to think of him, had hardly dared to believe it when Negri told her he'd survived, had forced herself not to imagine his return. He wouldn't come back to her the same, she knew, if he came back to her at all. If the tide of blood and secrets that stood between them could ever be crossed.

What would he think, she wondered, he ever found out about the role she'd played in the death of his brother officers? How would he look at her, seeing the blood on her hands, the architect of murder on a scale so grand it defied description?

For a moment, she considered hiding in the gentle darkness of Gregor's room. She could stay here and watch his sleeping face forever, no shadow of the past to cross their doorway, and she could bring him up in the innocence and light of a world untouched by Barrayar's madness. He would never need to know what his father had done. He would never need to know what his _mother_ had done.

But it was a foolish hope, she knew. This child would never escape the sins of his parents. 

She'd been trying not to listen out for it, but Simon's voice reached her anyway, a quiet word to Drou, a question. _Where's Alys_ , she heard him ask. _Where is milady?_

His lady. The familiar address, the warmth in his voice, made her look up, made her feet move before she was aware that she was walking. Barefoot - _just like she had run barefoot from her rooms into his arms, another winter in the past_ \- she made her way to the doorway of the room and stood there, watching.

Drou had her arms around him, squeezing him tight. Simon was hugging her back, smiling at something she said. _Brother and sister, almost,_ Alys thought. Her two most faithful protectors, her two dearest friends. 

_And if I hadn't married Serg, I would never had met either of you._

Then, though she had made no sound, Simon looked around abruptly. Their eyes met, and Alys felt his gaze like a sword right through her heart.

She could see in an instant that he wore the scars of Escobar on his face and his heart, from the Commander's rank tabs on his collar to the shadows in his eyes. She couldn't place a finger on exactly what it was, but it seemed that some light in him had diminished, some innocence flown. As he released Drou and walked towards her, there was something different about it too, a new aura of authority, the ability to draw the eye to his presence, where he'd always faded into the background before. _Vorkosigan,_ Alys thought. _Only he, who makes those around him shine all the brighter for his light, could have taught him that._

"Milady," Simon said, and moved to go down on one knee before her. She caught him before he could do it, her fingertips resting lightly on his arms. He'd held her like this once, as though she was made of glass, she remembered, and she wondered if she'd looked as shattered then as he did now.

"The Prince..." Simon whispered. 

"I know," Alys said back. 

"I—" Simon looked sharply away. 

"It was not your job to protect him," Alys replied. 

"I-- he-- there's something I need to..." 

He knew the truth behind Escobar, Alys realised, and he was fighting between the urge to let her have the truth, and to protect her from it. _Oh, Simon,_ she thought, with a flash of warmth. He hadn't changed at all. Not at heart, anyway.

"I knew," she said, very gently. "I knew when he left that he wasn't coming back."

His eyes widened, and he looked more like the old Simon she knew. _Everything changes, and yet everything remains the same..._

"Come," she said. "There's something – or someone, rather – that I need to introduce you to." 

He followed her into the room, a warm and comforting presence at her back. She led him to the side of Gregor's cot, and saw his expression morph from blank into pleased surprise, and then soften. 

"My liege," Simon said quietly.

Not, Alys, realised with a start, _Prince_ , or _Your Highness_. 

Sensitive to the motion around him, Gregor blinked, coming awake with a gurgle of inquiry. Seeing Simon hovering over him, he made a curious noise and stuck a hand out, waving. Almost hesitantly, Simon held out a finger to him, then looked on in wonderment as tiny fingers curled around his, and held. 

"He has your eyes," Alys said. 

Simon glanced over at her in confusion. "But we never..."

Alys smiled. "No. But that beautiful innocence isn't Serg's." _As though Gregor knew that his mother was thinking of someone else when he was conceived..._ "Simon," she said. "I may never remarry. But Gregor will need a father figure."

"I'm not qualified," he protested. "I couldn't possibly teach him what he needs to know--"

" _Simon,_ " Alys said again, firmly. "There is no one more qualified."

He searched her face, half-formed protests rising to the fore, then dying away unsaid in the face of her certainty.

"He may not have your blood in his veins, but I would hope that, at least, he will have the light of your spirit to shape him as he grows," Alys said. _Stay,_ she thought, and that thought was tinged with desperation, _Stay with me. Stay with him..._ "But Barrayar has already taken more from you than it has any right to, and this is a burden that I cannot … simply lay on you. If you wish to decline--" _to leave, to turn away from the nightmares of this place, to seek out a future you can call your own_ "—I will understand." _Though it breaks my heart._

Simon drew a breath. His gaze flickered between Gregor and her. _And here again, we come to a choice,_ Alys thought. Time seemed to hang between them, two divergent futures, and no hope of knowing what each held.

Then Simon's free hand sought out hers, and he bowed over it, before looking up at her. "Milady," he said, his voice choked with emotion. "There would be no greater honour, and no greater joy." 

Time moved again. Joy and hope swept over her, a dizzying tide. Her fingers curled around Simon's, held tight, never to let go. The future unfurled in her mind's eye, spreading out before them, endless with possibility. 

And the night, at long last, gave way to dawn.

*

_Finis._


End file.
